


Waiting to exhale

by Yukichouji



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Good thing Alfred knows what he's doing (most of the time), Hallucinations, I blame stress, M/M, Nightmares, Non-con Drug Use, Poor Jim, This one is strange guys, What Was I Thinking?, Work In Progress, disturbing imagery, very gory, very weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11320533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yukichouji/pseuds/Yukichouji
Summary: Jim lifts up his head and spits out his lungs.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not usually in the habit of posting fic that isn't finished yet, because I'm never sure when (or if at all) I'll get around to wrapping it up and I hate to leave people hanging. But as a result of that my hard drive has become somewhat cluttered with half-finished stuff I keep swinging back and forth between or have currently lost interest in. So I thought I'd try posting something after all and see how it goes. Maybe having someone to babble on about the fic will help me finish it. Just be warned, I am a slow and erratic writer so I cannot promise anything about the regularity of updates.
> 
> About the fic: This is an odd one, even for me... The only excuse I have is that I was pretty much stressed out of my mind when I started writing it. There's plenty of gore and some horror elements, but so far only when it comes to Jim's nightmares. This started before I saw season 3, so it has nothing to do with Alice or Jervis and that neat little virus. It's also sadly un-beta'd. Now, enough of my babbling. I hope you enjoy.

Jim lifts up his head and spits out his lungs.

 

They make a dull, wet sound when they hit the grimy tiles. A pale, flesh-colored butterfly, wings outstretched and laced with a delicate latticework of bluish veins.

 

The surreal tilt of the world topples and cants until he realizes that _he’s_ the one falling and not the other way round. The floor is cold and sticky-wet with the bitter stench of old piss and fresh vomit and the iron tang of congealed blood.

 

Above his head the door of a bathroom stall hangs ajar on its rusty hinges, crude drawings coming alive on their makeshift canvas, a writhing mess of thick, black lines that slither across plains of pealing, puke-green paint.

 

This is such a mess, he thinks and slides his eyes back over to the mass of convulsing flesh that should be in his chest but isn’t. Just barely, loosely attached to his body by the windpipe that pulls at the corner of his mouth and winds down thickly into his throat.

 

Such a mess.

 

A door bangs open and an overwhelming pool of noise – voices, voices, voices like the buzz of bees amplified beyond reason – spills into his head, and he’s drowning in it, even though his lungs are safely doing their breathing elsewhere.

 

Someone drops onto their knees beside him and the blurry familiarity of a blunt-edged, age-worn face shifts into his line of sight like an elastic band that was stretched across time and then sharply snaps back into place.

 

Caught off guard Jim jerks his head to the side and retches until the muscles in his stomach ache and bile soaks warm and biting into the shoulder of his dress-shirt.

 

A disembodied voice with an oddly out of place English accent curses in a way that would make Jim blush if he weren’t lying in his own vomit on the filthy floor of a restroom in the back of the cheapest joint in the worst part of this godforsaken city.

 

Everything fades out of focus, like the world’s beginning to fray at the edges, unraveling fabric. Threads slithering away into empty space until it’s all gone, reality disintegrated, leaving him behind in a weightless, light-less bit of nothing.

 

He feels like he’s floating through a void.

 

Somewhere in the far-off distance he can hear the anguished wail of sirens, distorted fragments of a mother’s bleeding heart, a long-lost lover calling him home.

 

“Help’s on the way, mate. You just hold on, now.”

 

 _Hold on,_ Jim thinks, _hold on to what?,_ bewildered, as a blindingly bright burst of agony pierces through the nothing and shatters it into a million feather-edged pieces. They tumble away to re-expose his fractured mind to the heavy, foul-smelling blanket of here and now.

 

He follows two uneven pillars of stark-white cotton and naked flesh to where they twist into the alien shape of blood-slick fingers and press against the heaving stretch of his chest.

 

Just to see, if he’ll remember the sound of his own voice when he hears it, Jim laughs, breathless and too thin. The gray pits that pass for eyes in the creased canvass of the other man’s face carry no trace of humor in them.

 

~~~

 

Jim doesn’t remember fading out again, but he must have, because the next time he comes to, the world has morphed from the ugly piss-stained tiles of the bar’s restroom into the clinical, almost painful white of a hospital room and the fog in his head has faded into the dull throb of a hang-over headache.

 

When he tries to move his arm, something snags at it and looking down he finds the needle of an IV-drip buried into the soft skin at the back of his hand. Everything before now is an indistinct blur, vague bits and pieces of memory that make no sense regardless of how he tries to fit them together. Except, he recalls the shocking bloom of crimson on the white of his dress-shirt and sure enough his fingertips catch at the rough texture of bandages wrapped tight around the arch of his ribs beneath the rough fabric of a set of blue scrubs.

 

Trying to take anything more than the shallow little breaths he’s been going with since he woke up sends a sharp stab of pain through his chest and he groans, letting his head drop back onto the pillow heavily.

 

The biting reek of disinfectant and illness doesn’t help the heavy buzz of disorientation any and Jim tries again to jog his memory of what got him here, only this time he reaches further back. To his relief he finds a bit more clarity there.

 

There was a case, Jim recalls – there always is, of course – but this one had stood out from the number of more ordinary ones he’s used to dealing with on a daily basis right from the start. It had that special brand of crazy that’s been becoming more and more a sad trademark of Gotham, spilling out from the evidence-bags and all across Jim’s desk, quite literally.

 

Some new kind of hallucinogenic drug that sent you on a crazy trip to la-la-land while it simultaneously ate away at your inner organs until they were nothing more but a foul-smelling, vicious pulp. They’d still been in the process of trying to air out the M.E.’s office to get rid of the stench, when the pills that were part of the evidence had melted and eaten a hole through the sturdy wood just inches from Jim’s pen-holder and they’d had to close off the bullpen, too, until the bio-hazard guys were ready to clear it.

 

God, Jim must have gotten dosed somehow, during the investigation. They’d found out that the only way to counteract the deadly effects of the drug was to flush it from the victims system before the damage became irreparable.

 

From the way Jim feels, even with the cottony lull of the painkillers heavy in his blood, he’d say he must have cut it pretty close. Another thought springs to the forefront of his mind and suddenly his heart is racing in his chest and a thick wave of nausea threatens to overtake him.

 

What if he wasn’t the only one, who’d been poisoned? The rush of adrenaline that floods his system has him feeling wide-awake and he grits his teeth against the pain as he struggles to get out of bed and onto shaky legs.

 

He startles badly, has to cling to the railing of the bed with a death-grip to not fall right on his face when a thickly accented voice to his left remarks dryly, “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting to find you up and about, Detective.”

 

Jim looks over only to find Alfred in the doorway of his hospital room, pushing an empty wheelchair and looking so terribly out of place in his proper three-piece suit. “What-?”

 

“Easy now.” Alfred is at his side and guiding him down into the wheelchair before Jim can remember how he was going to finish that sentence. And he’s grateful, because if he’s honest with himself, he really doesn’t know how much longer he’d have been able to keep himself on his feet, adrenaline or no.

 

“There we go.”

 

He takes a shuddering breath and clenches his hands around the armrests’ cracked leather covering to hide how badly they’re shaking. Worry overpowers his confusion and the one question that constricts his throat and makes his blood run cold above all others bubbles from him in a jumbled rush, even as he steels himself for its answer.

 

“Harvey, is he - ?”

 

“Your partner is fine, Detective.” Alfred says, his voice losing a bit of its usual bite as he gathers the sheet off the bed and tugs it around Jim’s legs firmly. “Now that he doesn’t have every policeman in the city out looking for your sorry self anymore, he’s busy trying to catch the bad guys again.”

 

“Oh.” Relief washes over Jim so thoroughly it makes him dizzy and he sinks back into the chair, suddenly drained of all of his previous determination. He starts to pay attention again, though, when Alfred drops the IV-bag into Jim’s lap, mindful of the line attaching it to the back of his hand, and starts to wheel him out into the hall. “What are you doing?”

 

“Well, sir, in case you’ve forgotten, your current lunatic du jour has been sending the city into a right frenzy by targeting hospitals with his neat little drug. Three so far, if I’m correct. And you, mate, happen to be in one. Since you went and got yourself poisoned. _And_ cut up. Quite the feat, if I dare say so.” Alfred doesn’t sound the least bit amused.

 

“And since he had me out looking for you anyways, the young Master was kind enough to offer we take care of you until things are somewhat more under control.”

 

“How nice of him.” Jim says and winces when he pulls at something disconcertingly tender in the general area of his chest. It’s becoming harder to concentrate again, and every time he opens his eyes after blinking the world has lurched forward, more than ought to be plausible and he thinks maybe he’s losing a couple seconds extra each time.

 

“Do the doctors know that you’re stealing me away?” He tries for nonchalant but ends up with thin and breathy instead.

 

“Not quite.” Alfred answers, dry as the Sahara, while the elevator begins its smooth glide towards the parking deck.

 

Even though Alfred does his best to help, the transition from wheelchair to passenger seat leaves Jim covered in cold sweat and sucking air through clenched teeth. He does his best to reason with his stomach that heaving its contents across his lap might not be the wisest course of action at the moment.

 

“If you’re going to be sick, mate, please at least roll down the window and aim in that general direction, yeah? I’ve just had the upholstery cleaned.”

 

The words carry their usual grouse but Jim catches the subtle note of worry underneath and he actually cracks open the window a tad, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The cool drift of air that gusts across the heated skin of his face as Alfred pulls out into traffic feels like a god-sent.

 

Giving in to the stubborn pull of shivery exhaustion, Jim closes his eyes and keeps them that way for the rest of the drive.

 

~~~

 

There’s a room that’s been prepared for him at Wayne Manor. One with a huge four-poster bed and large picture windows looking out onto the gardens. And Whoever chose it had enough fore-sight to make sure there are as few stairs involved in the getting there as possible in a house as old and convoluted as this one.

 

Even so, by the time they do reach it, Jim feels completely drained, muscles sore and heavy with exhaustion and vision swimming precariously. He has to set his jaw against the embarrassment of how little help he can offer Alfred in getting him out of the wheelchair and into the soft, welcoming embrace of the pillows and blankets. The smell of freshly pressed sheets and old wood soothes his frayed nerves and he watches blearily as Alfred attaches his IV-bag to one of the posts.

 

Bruce is a solemn, quiet presence in the background. The boy is growing so fast these days.

 

“You should get some rest, Detective.” Alfred tells him, brisk and business-like, like this is just another thing he does, nothing out of the ordinary, and Jim’s eyes drift shut before the sentence has been fully spoken. He is _safe_ here and apparently that knowledge is all it takes to blow out his lights.

 

For all of Alfred’s grit, the hand that adjusts his on the blanked to make sure the IV-line doesn’t get tangled, is surprisingly gentle.

 

“It’s been a bit of a rough day, to say the least.”

 

The words are faint and far away, muffled by the hazy lull of drug-aided sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Here's chap two. Hope you like. More warnings for gore and disturbing imagery and general weirdness. Have fun.

~~~

 

In his dreams Jim walks through a maze of corpses. The rotting bodies, with their puffy, purple-bluish flesh are stacked, one atop the other to build walls of decay that rise up toward the bleak, sunless sky.

 

The sweet, cloying scent of rotting meat is like syrup in his lungs and he threatens to choke on it every time he breathes in. Jim keeps wandering aimlessly, no sense of direction or time, but soon he begins to dread the horrors he comes upon with the turn of each new corner.

 

At first the bodies that he stumbles upon, distorted and disfigured in ways that have his stomach turning and leave him hard-pressed to keep down the bile that climbs up his throat, only seem vaguely familiar. A nebulous sense of recognition in the back of his mind, like he might have met these people at some point in his life but soon enough forgotten their names and their stories with nothing but the washed-out image of a face left behind in his memory.

 

The further he moves along, though, regardless of the path he chooses, the more well-known they become and the deeper the agony alienating their features cuts. He doesn’t want to see these things, cannot take the inexplicable sense of knowing that whatever terrible thing happened to these poor people is somehow his fault, his doing. Can feel the cold ropes of panic pulling tight around his neck.

 

And still, Jim cannot will his feet to stop moving, propelled forward by an invisible force that robs him of the control over his own body. He is helpless to watch himself take step after step, while his shoes sink deeper into the warm, thick mess of congealed blood and rotting flesh every time they touch the ground.

 

It rises up to his ankles, soaking stickily into the hem of his trousers, then it begins to climb up his legs, inch by inch, until it reaches his hips, making it feel like he’s wading through mud, a reddish-brown filth that writhes and shudders with the voiceless torment of irredeemably lost souls.

 

His own voice, distorted and alien, rises up to mingle with the endless, hopeless swells of gray above.

 

~~~

 

With a feeling like he’s being shoved back into a body that’s become too tight to hold him Jim jolts awake, shaking and sweating, the sheets tangled, claustrophobic, around his limbs. He’s too hot and he can’t breathe right and for a moment there is nothing but panic as he tries to shove away the blankets and free himself of the nightmare’s fever-grip.

 

“Careful, son. You’re gonna rip out the bloody IV.” The mattress dips as Alfred sets a knee onto it, reaching to capture Jim’s wrist in a strong, capable grip, holding it still, and lays a blissfully cool palm across Jim’s eyes. “Steady now. Whatever it was, it’s gone. It’s alright, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

 

Jim tilts his face into the touch, lets it ground him, anchor him, and ever so slowly his pulse begins to tamper down to a normal rhythm. The world rights itself and the crimson pull of his nightmare-vision fades into the background.

 

“There you go.” The hand on his eyes slides up to press against his forehead and then away, leaving him feeling dizzy and disoriented. Night has fallen while Jim was asleep and the darkness in the room is kept at bay only by the dim glow of a small bedside lamp to his left.

 

Alfred looks strange, half shadow, half light, as he sits on the edge of the mattress wearing the look of someone who’s become quite adapt at hiding how badly startled he’d been.

 

“Sorry.” Jim mutters, feeling sheepish. His voice comes out rough and he’s surprised at how sore his throat is. He tries to swallow to alleviate the sensation. It doesn’t help much.

 

“No need.” Alfred tells him, and although his tone is back to his usual gruff self, the gentleness with which his thumb strokes across the soft, ticklish skin at the inside of Jim’s wrist, where Alfred’s fingers are still circling loosely, is an unexpected counterpoint.

 

“The Doctors did say there might be some lingering after-effects.”

 

God, Jim hopes that dream was just an after-effect of the drug, otherwise he’d be compelled to question the state of his sanity in a truly uncomfortable way. He feels too raw, too open and he doesn’t know how to close up these wounds and find his way back to who he’s supposed to be. Here, deep within the belly of this huge, old house, underneath a heavy blanket of darkness and quiet, he feels hollow and lost.

 

“What time is it?” Jim asks, just to give himself something else to focus on.

 

“Near half past one in the morning, I’d say.” Alfred answers without sparing his watch a glance, sounding a bit exasperated.

 

“Ah.” Jim tries unsuccessfully to ignore the unease bubbling around in his chest. “Shouldn’t you be asleep or something, then?”

 

Alfred scoffs. “Oh, in an ideal world, absolutely. As it were, though, I was changing your drip,” Alfred indicates the fresh IV-bag dangling form the bedpost overhead. “,when you started yellin’ your pretty little head off. Near bloody right gave me a heart-attack.”

 

Embarrassment heats up Jim’s cheeks and he shifts uncomfortably beneath the weight of Alfred’s gaze. “Sorry, about that.”

 

“As I said, no need.” The lines around Alfred’s eyes soften just the slightest bit as he finally lets go of Jim’s wrist, placing Jim’s hand back onto the covers gingerly. As though he can see the fractures running through Jim and fears that he might shatter if not handled with the right amount of care. The thought has Jim feeling a little overheated for an entirely different reason.

 

Jim can’t remember the last time someone touched him with so much thought for his well-being. The skin on his wrist tingles with the loss of warmth and he can’t help the way his chest tightens and his breath comes a little too quickly. He must still be a lot more out of it than he’d figured.

 

The buzz of the painkillers dulls the edges of his thoughts, packs them into cotton and wool so that they don’t bump against one-another quite so loudly.

 

“Perhaps you should try to catch a bit more shut-eye, eh? Things are likely to look a lot brighter in the morrow, aren’t they, now?” Alfred says and gets to his feet, leaving the mattress to shift away the dip of his presence.

 

Jim’s throat tightens at the prospect of being left alone in the dark, of having to close his eyes and face the grotesque landscape of his drug-evoked dreams. At the same time he can’t help but be frustrated with himself for being so childish.

 

Alfred doesn’t leave the room as Jim was expecting, however. He just walks over to a comfortable-looking armchair at the edges of the faint circle of light cast about by the bedside lamp and picks up a book that had been lying face-down on the armrest, before he takes a seat.

 

When Alfred catches his gaze he gives an easy shrug and flips open the book. “Don’t mind me, now. I’m just taking advantage of the opportunity to catch up on some reading. Besides, Bullock would have my hide if you ended up dead, seizure or heart-attack in the middle of the night or whatnot.”

 

Irrationally, he feels a surge of irritation swell in his chest. He wants to tell Alfred that he doesn’t need someone to watch over him while he sleeps, just to keep the nightmares at bay, that he’s not been a child for a very long time, but the words get stuck in his throat and he has to swallow around them thickly.

 

If he’s taking a moment to sort himself out, then he has no choice but to admit that the annoyance he feels is still at himself and not at Alfred. For not wanting to send him away, for the wave of gratitude at the warmth of the familiar presence.

 

He’s never been good at being alone, no matter how hard he tries to tell himself otherwise or how much he normally does to not let it show.

 

Too tired and to addled to deal with the mess in his head properly, Jim decides to, just this once, accept the offered comfort with a bit of grace and be thankful for it, instead of fighting it. It’s late, the weight of his body presses him softly into the pillows and his heart won’t stop fussing about in his chest.

 

So he snaps his mouth shut, lets his weary eyes droop closed and the knowledge of being watched over by someone strong and competent and safe guide him back down into sleep.


End file.
